


2023

by Anna_Blume



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Canada, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mentions of War, Post-Gilead, Reunion, and some smut, atths, with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Blume/pseuds/Anna_Blume
Summary: ”Four years without her, and it felt like a blink of an eye and half of eternity all at once. To hold her again was dizzyingly unreal, yet somehow the only thing that made sense.”Another take on a possible post-Gilead reunion scenario.
Relationships: Nick Blaine/June Osborne | Offred
Comments: 25
Kudos: 94





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever. Well, the first one I’ve completed.  
> I’m not a native English speaker and this story hasn’t been proofread, so thank you for your understanding, should you find (m)any mistakes.   
> I hope the story is readable as it is (though I’m basically shitting my pants here 😅)

The sun was hanging low when the car pulled up onto the graveled driveway, the sky crystal clear except for the faint stroke of thin smoke seeping lazily from the chimney. He got out, facing the little black house. The rustle of the car tires faded away, and he inhaled the rich, lakeside air mingling with the smell of hot timber and smoke, the specific mixture so acutely familiar, that he felt something ancient unravel in his bones. This nook of the Canadian forest smelled like late summer nights on the island, up north on Lake Michigan. It smelled like his childhood and the most wholesome moments of his life. He took it as a good omen.  


The front porch of the house was paneled with pale wooden boards and ribboned by a low railing made from the same sort of wood, as were the three steps leading up to the front door. Below the porch railing grew a row of thick, untamed bushes sprinkled with withering red and white blossoms, and he recognized some types of wild grasses hiding in between. The lamp by the front door was already on in anticipation of night, which fell slowly somewhere behind him.  


He adjusted the leather strap of his duffel bag, partly because it dug annoyingly into his shoulder, partly because he couldn’t help but stall. He took a few steps forward anyway, but a moment later, decided otherwise. He swept a look over the porch. The corner to the left looked like a perfect place for a swing, but instead of one, three bare flowerpots stood silently in the corner.  


To the right, he noticed a white bench, a little round table, and on it, a thick white candle. Right above the table there was a large window with a white painted frame, but a paper shade rolled up from the windowsill to the middle of the glass blocked the look inside. Above the shade, he saw some kind of paper decoration, rows of perfectly round, white and violet circles sewed together in three separate garlands. Somehow, they gave him a push.  


Far to his right, he saw a gap in the bushes, and he headed there instead of up the stairs. He turned the corner and a couple of feet in front of him, there was a crown of an old maple tree, which looked like it grew, without a trunk, directly from the ground. Its leaves blushed yellow and red in the late August sun as he moved towards it, until he understood the illusion. Hidden behind the same kind of bushes as in the front of the house, and right under the tree crown, there was a wooden staircase, which hugged the side of a steep little cliff, the tree trunk rooted in the ground down below him.  


He gripped the railing where the white paint was flaking off, and started walking down soundlessly. After a couple of steps, the branches thinned out and a lake came into view. The shore to the left was fully overgrown in a charmingly nonchalant way, and it cleared to the right, where a small beach was nestled, before the thicket began again. He stopped suddenly.  


In the clearing, almost at the shore, yet only a couple of steps away from him, she sat quietly on a red and green plaid blanket, her back half turned to him. Her feet were bare, casually kneading the tufts of grass that grew sparsely over the dark sand. Her hair, blond and silver, swayed in the faintest breeze. She looked swatted in a thick gray cardigan, the chill of the imminent evening slowly setting in. Her legs were wrapped in black jeans and bent, her elbow anchored on her knee, her hand gripping her neck, in the other a book, which lay splayed on her legs. He was standing in her peripheral view, yet she seemed too engrossed in the fiction to notice him. He stayed there for a while, his fingers turning cold and stiff.  


He moved finally, the sound of his steps muffled by the soft, old wood and then by the dank sand. He walked in a half circle, removing himself from the space where she could catch him from the corner of her eye, and walked up closer behind her. A smile crept into the corner of his mouth. She still didn’t notice him.  


She lifted her head from the book a moment later, and he saw her freeze for a split second. Slowly, she turned her head around.  


“You come here often?” he said, his voice unexpectedly thick, and he willed his body to stay still, even when his insides trembled like leaves of a young birch tree.  


“That’s my favorite spot,” she answered after a beat, the bewilderment in her eyes replaced quickly by the smug yet sweet sparkle he knew and loved. She smiled then, the soft and honest smile, and he couldn’t contain his anymore.  


She stood up slowly and he took a step forward, stopping by the edge of the blanket, where she moved to from her end. Hesitantly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and stretched her legs, standing on tiptoes when he pulled her closer, letting his bag tumble to the ground. He felt her rest her chin on his shoulder, before she burrowed her nose in his neck, breathing in deeply.  


“Are you real?” he heard her whisper.  


“Are you?”  


She hugged him more confidently in response and then pulled back, looking up at him.  


“Hi.”  


“Hey.”  


“Right answer,” she chuckled. “That was the test.”  


She hid her face in the crook of his shoulder again, and moved her hands down his front and inside his jean jacket, hugging him underneath it, right above his hips, the way she so often did before.  


He couldn’t _not_ give in to that moment even if he tried, and he let the subtle warmth of her body soothe the tremor inside him.  


He didn’t know what that meant exactly, this hug, this closeness. Her tenderness. Was it the moment, or was it possible that she’s waited for him for over four years?  


More than four years without her, and it felt like a blink of an eye and half of eternity all at once. To hold her again was dizzyingly unreal, yet somehow the only thing that made sense.  


“Mom?” a small voice sounded somewhere behind and above him. June loosened her embrace, looking up past him, her eyes sparkling, and his insides quaked again. He closed his eyes, but they fluttered open again when he felt ready to see her. It was a lie he told himself, of course. He could never be prepared for that moment.  


He turned around and saw her standing at the top of the stairs that led to the back porch of the house. She looked at him with June’s eyes, not only in color, but also in expression, and he thought he saw a spark of recognition there. How could she be remembering him?  


June took his hand and they walked the couple of steps towards the bottom of the stairs, his eyes not leaving his girl. Her dark hair came to her shoulders, straight and shining as his mother’s, her lips and nose undeniably similar to his. He half expected her to maybe dash, abashed or scared by the stranger, even if he secretly wanted her to run straight into his arms. But she stood there, still and plucky, her eyes fixed on him, until June addressed her.  


“Do you wanna come down here, baby?”  


Her eyes slid slowly to June, then back to him, before she walked down the steps. June kneeled on one knee in the cold sand and took Holly’s hand, bringing her closer, and she pushed her back against June’s chest. Her proximity felt even more strange and unreal to him than what he felt with June a moment ago. He leveled with them, kneeling down and sitting back on his heels. One more thing she had from him, the host of tiny moles, which dotted the skin of her face. She was part him and she was a part of him.  


“Do you know who this is?” June said tenderly into Holly’s ear, and she nodded in response. “Who is it, Holly?”  


“That’s daddy,” she answered now a little abashed. June smiled the brightest kind of smile when he looked over to her, and she put her hands on Holly’s sides in a simple sign of reassurance.  


Her words kept replaying in his head over and over again, his mind suspended in a cloud of delight, the kind he only really felt once before, when she was as little and compact to fit perfectly in his palms. He grinned, probably a silly, drunken grin, but he had no energy to control it. But she looked at him as if she didn’t care.  


“He looks almost like in the pictures,” Holly told June, tilting her head up a bit to her, but still holding his gaze.  


“He does, doesn’t he?” June laughed. “Would you like to say hello?”  


Holly took a step forward, then another, and he held his hand out to her, palm turned up. She gripped it rather clumsily between the thumb and the forefinger, and moved closer.  


“Hello. My name is Holly Nichole Osborne and I’m five years old.”  


“Hello Holly. My name is Nick and I’m thirty-five years old. It’s a dream come true to finally see you again.”  


He stroked her fingers with his thumb and after a moment, gave her hand the smallest pull. It was all the encouragement she needed to take another step and bring her arms around his neck. He palmed her back, feeling her ribs move underneath the fabric of her shirt. She was still so tiny.  


She pulled back, but stayed in his embrace. Slowly, he felt her fingers on his face, tenderly touching his cheeks where they were plump, pushed up by his wide smile. She gave them a little squeeze and moved her palms down, cupping his face, as if _he_ were the baby here, not her. Suddenly, her face changed, like she had an idea, and the soft curiosity vanished from her eyes. She pushed away and he watched her ran up the stairs, not turning back.  


“Did I do something wrong?” he turned to June, a little confused.  


“No,” she chuckled. “I think she wants to show you something. Someone.”  


“Someone?”  


Right, he thought, turning his eyes downwards. June’s tenderness back there must’ve been just the spur of the moment. She didn’t wait, and he told himself to fucking understand that, even when he felt something constrict his throat. But her eyes emanated something completely different than what he expected when he looked up at her. Something shy, but warm. Something he couldn’t place or name.  


Holly reappeared at the top of the stairs, pulling behind her another child, a boy. He was a bit smaller than her, but the whirl of crazy, dark curls atop his head made him look just as tall. Hope, this stupid thing, started to flicker inside him again. Maybe he was just a neighbor’s kid, or a play friend from kindergarten. But then, he knew it couldn’t be true, for the boy, too, looked at him with June’s eyes. Holly held the boy’s hand tightly as they walked down the stairs, her expression a little proud and delighted all at once. His seemed mildly irritated, as if she interrupted him in the middle of some very important task. It somehow made him look even more endearing.  


“Nick,” he heard June whispering. “You have a son.”  


“What?” he breathed out, as struck as back then, in the kitchen, when he found her sitting there with that fresh gash on her head, her expression tinted with futility and resignation. Her face was different now, and all of a sudden, he could place the look in her eyes. She looked at him like that when she pulled him with her to see Holly, to hold her for the first time. But this couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be possible.  


Holly pulled the boy closer to Nick, but he dug his heels and folded his arms. “I wanna go back,” he sighted.  


“No, look. This is him,” she encouraged the boy. “Just look, silly.”  


He looked up then, reluctantly. His face said he didn’t believe a word Holly told him, whatever it was that she said. But then, he held Nick’s gaze, and his arms unfolded slowly. He pushed past Holly and crushed into June’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of her shoulder.  


“I told you it was him,” Holly piped up. “He’s just so stubborn sometimes,” she added, looking back at Nick, but her expression was warm and sweet. She wasn’t even teasing.  


June turned the boy around, and the unexpected tenderness in his eyes made Nick hold his breath.  


“This is your daddy,” June whispered into his ear time and again. “You don’t need to be shy. He’s happy to see you.”  


Nick nodded, turning his gaze from Holly to June, to the boy again. Holly took the boy’s hand again and he left June’s embrace.  


“This is my brother, Josh,” Holly introduced him finally.  


“Josh?” he gasped, looking over at June.  


She didn’t answer, but closed her glassy eyes and gave him a tiny little nod. Nick looked down at the boy standing in front of him, and exhaled shakily, uncontrollably. His face, too, was covered in tiny moles, his skin darker than his sister’s, darker than his. A lot like Josh’s.  


“It’s so nice to meet you, Josh. You look a lot like your sister. You’re both so beautiful.”  


“Do you wanna see our room?” the boy asked casually, like this suddenly wasn’t a big deal, meeting his father for the first time, and it made Nick chuckle. He was much like his mother, he could see that already. Holly nodded in agreement, and Josh took her hand in the most natural manner. Nick watched them walk up the stairs together, watched the love between them radiate softly.  


He felt June’s fingers touch the back of his hand before she slid them in between his, and pulled him up to his feet.


	2. two

The back porch was more like an elevated terrace. He saw her there immediately, spending her evenings on the little couch nestled in the corner, shielded by a white, triangle canvas which hang above it, and overlooking the magnificent view of the lake and the forest behind it, where the treetops tickled the edge of the sinking sun. On the other side of the railing, a row of trees blocked the view onto the porch from the side, growing so close to the house, that he imagined she could reach over from the couch and touch the needles.  


The whole wall behind the porch was covered in windows, which began at the floor and ended right under the flat slope of the roof, where a row of bulb string lights hung along its edge. There was a sliding door in the middle, now pushed to the side, allowing a narrow peek inside the house, the rest blurred by the glass surface reflecting the sunset. The kids stopped there to take off their shoes before they went inside, so he toed off his government issued chucks as well, smiling at June’s bare feet next to the pristine white socks he was wearing.   


The living area was a strikingly cozy, open space with a white kitchen to the right, separated from the dining area to his left by a counter and three black barstools. Opposite the sliding door, in the far left corner of the living room, stood a big, gray couch, and to the right, there was what his eye caught first, a little library nook filled not only with books, but also vinyls, puzzle boxes, games and toys. Under the light of a floor lamp and next to a free standing iron fireplace, which gave the room a warm glow, he noticed puzzle pieces strewn about, one corner of the picture already put together. Josh’s very important task, he assumed.   


“The house is beautiful,” he murmured, warmed by the fact that she created such a wonderful space for them, simple but wholesome, and even if they knew fear and uncertainty, they also knew the kind of safety and warmth this house offered, the first thing he felt when he crossed the threshold.   


“Thank you,” she nodded. “We moved in two years ago, in the spring. I’ve gotten some financial aid from the government to buy and renovate. People are still fleeing to the cities, so houses like this became affordable. And I couldn’t stand Toronto. I needed silence, nature. Gilead skewed me that way, I guess.“  


He squeezed her hand, understanding exactly what she meant. After years spent in the sedated suburbs, he too grew to miss these aspects in Chicago, a broken yet breathing city, disguised in piousness on good days, when the ground ceased to shake, but pulsing underneath with unrestrained carnality and scot-free slaughter orgies.  


“Their room is that way,” she added, pulling him towards the hall to the left, which lead to the bedrooms and the main entrance. For a split second, he believed she was just as anxious to let go of his hand, afraid that this might turn out to be a dream. He followed her as he would wherever she took him, without a doubt.   


Holly and Josh’s room was not very large, but as cozy as the rest of the house. Two narrow beds stood pushed against either wall on the opposite sides of the room. In the middle, a large window let in the orange and pink light, which bounced off the white walls and illuminated the room’s every nook and cranny. Standing below the window there was a low, wide table scattered with pencils, crayons, construction paper, poster paints, coloring books and a whole assortment of knickknacks and toys he couldn’t identify. In the space between the table and the windowsill hung a long board overflowing with pictures, ticket stubs, pamphlets, dried flowers and photographs pinned to it.   


“There’s you,” Holly said, pointing at a picture. He came to his knees to get a better look, when Holly snuck under his arm from one side, and Josh mirrored a moment later from the other.   


There he was, his face a bit blurred by the camera flash, skinny but laughing and glowing, a buddy whose name he’s forgotten stuck under his arm. He remembered the night, their last one in the barracks, the end of their basic training. The next morning, his father called to tell him about Josh.   


He looked to the right where little Josh was trying to show him another picture. This one has been taken a couple of months later in Fort Bragg, where he was subsequently stationed, when Pryce made smaller and smaller circles around him. His face was pale and tired, a forced smile plastered to his face. He looked even skinnier and as drained and numb as he felt back then.  


But the last picture knocked the air out of his lungs. He was ten, maybe eleven, leaning against his mother’s side, her hand on his shoulder. Next to her was his father, his arm around Josh. A snapshot of a still happy family. His mother’s face looked different than what he carried in his memory, somehow more her, more beautiful, more ethereal, as if _his_ memory faded like an old picture. Unconsciously, he gathered Holly and Josh a bit closer to him, and they allowed it.  


“This was last year by the ocean,” Holly pointed at another picture, then another, and another. In the woods, picking berries; together at some animal farm; on swings with Luke; eating ice cream with Moira and Hannah; Josh still a toddler on Rita’s lap. They took turns telling him little stories, giggling and quarreling, until his head buzzed with joy. He turned around to look at June, who sat silently at the edge of Holly’s bed, watching them, listening.  


They showed him their favorite books and toys, told him about their friends from kindergarten, about their visits to Toronto, about their older sister who lived there. They showed him across the hall to Hannah’s room, where he recognized the white and purple garlands hanging in a zigzag across the window.  


He walked over to the mirrored door of her closet to look at the pictures stuck behind the frame, and saw a stunning young girl, already as tall as June, her head encircled by a dark, curly halo of her hair.   


“She’s living with Luke?” he asked hesitantly when he noticed June join him.   


“Yeah, she wanted to stay with him. It’s better for her there, she likes the city, she has her friends there, her school. She’s closer to professional help there,” she said under her breath, her voice small.  


“How did she adjust?”  


“Uhm, it was fine at the beginning. She went to an inclusive school which specialized in refugee children. Luke and I did everything we could to make it as easy for her as possible, but she struggled with the new reality, and she withdrew socially and emotionally,” she raked her hand through her hair, peeking behind her, and his gaze followed to where Holly and Josh sat on the floor back in their room with one of Hannah’s magazines splayed before them, engrossed in the pictures.  


“She struggled with accepting Holly, and then Josh,” she began again, looking up at one particular picture of Hannah with Luke. “We worked hard on that and we managed to cross that bridge. As she got older, she started to understand Gilead and what’s been done to her, to me. She understood you and me, and how they came to be. She loves them now,” she smiled, looking up at another picture, a brand new one, taken on the beach. It showed Hannah wrapped in a towel, tickling Josh, who looked ecstatic on the red and green plaid blanket, Holly right behind Hannah, laughing wildly, her hands on Hannah’s shoulders.  


“But before that happened, she gravitated towards Luke, and I had to let her find the kind of solace and encouragement she needed. I couldn’t force anything on her she didn’t want or understand. When I decided to move here, I let her make her own decision, and it was the right one. We needed that distance between us again, to be able to move towards each other in a right pace.”  


“So it’s helping, the separation?”  


“It definitely is. She spends every other weekend here, a couple of weeks during breaks and holidays. I’m in Toronto every Monday and we go to therapy together. We spend some time alone afterwards. We text or call each other almost every day. We’re getting there,” she smiled again, and he could see her balancing a thin line between reality and hope. There was a hint of futility in her eyes, a vibrating tension in her body, a note of emotional exhaustion in her voice. But there was also her will and her strength, right at her core, more solid than ever.  


Guilt tightened his lungs, that their relationship might’ve been better had he been here, had she had more time and headspace to reconnect with her. That he left her with no choice regarding Holly, and Josh, and it affected the bond with her daughter. He had ample room for that guilt to trickle down and add a new layer to that pit inside him, the pit he spent the last four and something years trying to shovel free of another guilt.  


But then, she surprised him again, as if she were reading his mind.   


“It’s Gilead’s fault... Gilead fucked her up, it fucked me up. Holly and Josh’s presence acted merely as a catalyst for the difficulties that transpired between Hannah and me. It had never to do with them per se,” she reassured, resting her palm over his shoulder blade.   


“Mom, can we have sweet potatoes for dinner?” Holly asked suddenly behind them.  


“Sure, my baby,” June replied, and he saw her eyes brighten up again when she picked up their daughter and sat her on her hip. “Do you think daddy would like to have sweet potatoes for dinner?” They both looked at him expectantly, and his eyes slid from June’s wide smile to Holly’s shy one, that word still sounding so new, yet so right in his ears. _Daddy_.  


“I love sweet potatoes,” he grinned. 


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very brief mentions of war and death.  
> Explicit language.

In the kitchen, they were like a well-oiled machine. June washed and cut the potatoes, Holly arranged them on a baking sheet and slathered them with olive oil and salt, while June whipped up a quick guacamole. Nick cut some tomatoes and watched Josh assemble the salad.

From a bottom cabinet, he took out a large bowl and put it on the floor next to the fridge, before he pulled one container out.  


“How many grabs?” he asked.  


“Grabs?” Nick mouthed to June.  


“He means handfuls,” she chuckled.  


Josh proceeded to take four _grabs_ of arugula out of the container and place them into the bowl, then he did the same with a container of baby spinach and red beet strings, mixing everything confidently with his hands, all the while sitting comfortably on the floor. He gave Nick the bowl and requested a lemon dressing to go with it, which he dutifully fixed.  


“Do they always help so much in the kitchen?” he wondered when everything was ready and they were only waiting for the potatoes to cook, Holly and Josh by the fireplace, busy with the puzzle.  


“They must’ve gotten their enthusiasm for cooking from you,” she replied, ripping the seal off a bottle of wine. “I’m still trying to find joy in this.”  


“And they will really eat a dinner consisting of only vegetables?”  


“Why, you think we need something else in there?” she raised her eyebrow and addressed the kids, but her eyes stayed fixed on his. “Hey guys, should we put something other than vegetables in our bowls? Like tuna maybe?”  


“No!” Josh cried.  


“Tuna? Eew,” Holly echoed his disgust.   


He laughed wholeheartedly at that, covering his mouth with his hand, and it moved something deep within him, something primal. He wasn’t sure if the inclination towards cooking was something they inherited from him, specifically, but this was unequivocal. _They_ came from _him_.  


“They’re your kids, Nick. Of course they’ll eat a vegetable bowl,” June smirked, pulling out the cork with a pop, and filling their glasses, making him blush and shake his head, delighted with the way she knew them. And even though he knew _her_ , he wanted to know _about_ her, as well.  


“Do you work again?” he asked, accepting the glass from her.   


“Yeah, I started as soon as I could, legally,” she replied, lifting herself up to sit on the counter. He remained standing, resting his hip against the marbled edge next to her.   


“Were you able to stay in editing?”  


“Not right away. I tutored for a while, teenagers mostly. But I was able to make some contacts eventually. Since last summer, I’ve been working part time for a publishing house. I go to the offices in Toronto every Monday before therapy with Hannah, but I do most of the work remotely. I had a couple of book commissions in between. I do some freelance stuff at the university, papers, articles, so I’m on campus every now and then.”  


“So you work from home?”  


“In the evenings, yeah. I have a desk at a co-op office in town, so I work there a couple of days a week after I drop Holly and Josh off at the kindergarten. On other days, I bike back home to take care of chores, and I work in between.”  


“You _bike_?” he gaped.  


“Yeah I bike,” she laughed, feigning being offended. “I have a helmet and special gloves and everything. The bike has a carrier for the kids, and I put groceries in there when I ride home. What?” she chortled, because he couldn’t stop grinning.  


“Nothing,” he shrugged and pressed his lips together, trying to stifle the grin.  


“Hey, I try to stay active. I bike, I run, I do yoga, I go swimming.”  


“Sporty-Spice mom,” he teased, taking a sip of wine.  


“Shut up,” she said, tilting her head to the side, poorly stifling her own grin, her eyes even brighter.   


Seeing her like that made something unexpectedly murky bubble to the surface of his mind. “It’s wonderful that you do that,” he said after a moment, the lightness vanishing from his voice. “I’m glad that you are able to uhm… to decide that on your own again. I cannot imagine how much this must’ve been missing from your life... This, and so much more. I’m glad you have it all back.”  


“Yeah,” she nodded, and he could see her retreating back into her thoughts, before she continued. “It’s weird how much I've missed being at work, you know, that kind of atmosphere. Being in this context, doing your work in a designated space, having people around you, who understand and appreciate what you do, if you’re lucky enough,” she smiled again, and he believed she was not only talking about the present, but thinking of her fellow Handmaids as well. “We’re just a couple of people at the office here in town, so it’s not like in the corporate world, thank god. Although, I _do_ adore the coffee breaks and the stupid gossip... But even though we’re just a bunch of people thrown together in a confined space during a small window of time, this... connection emerged between us. Over time, we’ve gotten close.”  


“Did you make friends here?”  


“Uhm, I made a few good acquaintances. Only one other person in the office has children, and there are only about twenty families in town with kids, so we know each other by default. Some of us have gotten closer, others prefer to keep to themselves. But I have my people in Toronto.”  


“How are people in Toronto?” he inquired, not looking away.  


“They’re good,” she replied, not looking away either. “Moira is thriving, she basically runs the refugee center in Little America. Luke left construction last year, he’s a sous-chef at a brasserie downtown. I go there on Mondays for lunch, it’s walking distance from work. We talk about Hannah, mostly...”  


“I'd like to thank him... and Moira. Do you think they’ll talk to me?”  


“I’m sure they will. I can talk to them on Monday.”  


“Thank you... Do you go on your own? To therapy, I mean?” he added after a beat.  


“I did, and then I didn’t. I have someone here, but I don’t go regularly. I think I’ve reached the point where I can say that I left it all behind me, the cruelty of Gilead,” she sighted, mulling something over, and her voice turned heavy when she continued. “I’m fully aware of my freedom now. I try to live in the present. It took me a while to unlearn the pathological patterns, to quench Gilead’s tares within me. But they run deep, Nick. You’ll be surprised,” she warned, looking at the floor, her eyes unfocused. 

She turned to him again, her gaze so bare and intense, that he couldn’t hold it. He heard her slip off the counter when he looked down, and he felt her cool, soft hand touch his cheek.  


His mind blocked itself off, it was empty; he had no thoughts. Waves of fear, and horror, and love, longing, solitude, want, disbelief, deprivation, desire, and others he didn’t know how to name, overran him like a steamroller. His breaths came out in stifled, short puffs through his nose, and he wasn’t able to comprehend what was happening to him. He clenched his jaw in an attempt to hold it in, to hide the tumult, and not to let himself crumble in front of her. She saw the turmoil in his eyes, he was sure of it, but he failed to recognize the meaning behind hers, which remained tender and certain on him. She ran her hand down to his chest and let it linger on his sternum, before she turned away to join the kids and their puzzle.  


The sky was painted magenta and purple when they sat down to dinner, his reflection turning more visible in the window, his face illuminated by the soft light from the lamp hanging low above the table. Even when he saw them next to him, and doubled in the reflection, he still had difficulty believing that this was his reality. The residue of his odd attack still hummed inside him, until June’s eyes caught his across the table, grounding him.   


His mind snapped back into place, and the meaning of her earlier gesture finally became apparent to him. It said, I’m here to help, but there’s a long and difficult road ahead of you.   


She was right, of course.   


After the hearings in Toronto, after Agent Tuello patted him on the back and handed him the blue passport, he frantically made room in his head for what was next on his list, the only item on it, actually. _Her_. He shoved everything aside, he squeezed the last four years of Gilead, and war, into compartments he knew were too small, and locked them in. 

But it's been barely a week since he left Chicago. The particular scent of war still lingered in the periphery of his lungs, the distinctive mix of metallic dust, sweat and shit; the tang of sweetness that hung in the air during attacks, of hot blood, spit and terror. The sound of a bullet hitting muscle, a different one of when it hit bone, were meticulously catalogued in his mind. The feeling of closing cold, clammy eyelids was forever engraved in his fingertips. The warm whiff of countless last breaths would never leave his face. It mortified him to imagine how many of those he might have caused himself.

The compartments were packed tight and brimming. The locks will ultimately break, letting everything spill into the space he made for their future. He’ll have to figure out how to prepare for that, or else, how to attempt a controlled release of the contents. Because this was it.   


This was him, having dinner with his family.


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit language.

The night was thick blue ink outside. The thin slice of the moon barely illuminated the cool darkness and the faintly rippling surface of the lake when he went down to the beach to retrieve his duffel bag and pick up the forgotten blanket. He stopped at the shore for a moment, letting the familiar need to dip his feet in the black water linger inside him. 

After a while, he pulled his socks off and went in, until the water swashed around his ankles, cooling his body and mind. His skin was still damp under his clothes from the heat and steam that filled the bathroom, where he watched Holly and Josh get a bath. The glass of wine he had with dinner continued to throb in his veins, spreading warmth all over his body. 

The pictures from the evening filled his head in a hot whirl. His kids shoveling down sweet potatoes, beets and salad like holiday candy. Josh showing him how to ‘correctly’ load plates into the dishwasher. All of them on the floor by the fire, putting the puzzle together. June, soft and glowing, his gaze insistently wandering back to her, as if pulled by a magnet. Seeing her as a mother to these little people, consequent and skilled. Helping them get ready for bed. Watching them listen to the story he read out loud to them. 

Out of nowhere, a hot tear skidded down his cheek. He closed his eyes against the feeling, which by now, became painfully foreign to him. He wouldn’t even let himself think of it, let alone name it, out of fear that it would turn into something physical, something that could be lost or taken away. But it filled his lungs to the brim now, overwhelming him with such intensity, that any attempt at stopping himself from crumbling would’ve been futile. So he let the tears come. 

There was a prickling at the back of his neck and he turned around, knowing she was watching him, even before his eyes focused on her dark silhouette leaning over the railing, sketched against the dim light coming from the house and the string lights behind her. He moved towards her like a metaphoric moth to a flame, gathering the items he came down for on his way, wiping away his tears with a quick swipe of his cheeks against his arms. 

“Testing the water?” she chuckled, looking down at the clumps of sand sticking to his feet when he came up, and he thought he detected a slight shift in her voice. 

“Something like that,” he smiled back, stomping. “With enough encouragement, I would be willing to go all the way in.” 

“With encouragement, you mean alcohol?” 

“That, too,” he smirked. Seeing her easy like that, with that playful lightness pulling at her eyebrows, caused his gut to tense and tickle, and his fingers itched to touch her. 

“Well, you’ll need to get inside for that, it’s too damn cold to drink outside, let alone skinny dip,” she quipped, handing him a soft brush, and took his duffel bag inside. He didn’t mind the significant chill, his body hardened by the Chicago weather, so he took his time cleaning his feel. He went inside after he brushed the sand off, and sat down on a stool by the counter, his eyes following her again. 

The lights were off in the kitchen and over the dining room table, the space illuminated only by the fire and the floor lamp by the reading nook, and the string lights just outside. He squeezed himself into the corner between the counter and the window, enjoying the cool surface of the glass against the still heated plane of his back, covered in the thick fabric of his sweatshirt, and enjoying the sight of her. 

She was on the other side, finishing cleaning up, and she must’ve felt his gaze on her, because her eyes flitted to his and then away again, before a smirk danced on her lips. She gathered her hair, twisting it around her finger, and pushed the makeshift ponytail to the back of her neck. Glasses and dishes clattered softly as she put them away, her movement elastic, immanent. The soft waves of her hair kept persistently coming back to her face when she moved around, and she twirled it back again unconsciously, before she refilled their glasses with wine. 

“How did you find the pictures?” he inquired, her little quirk unexpectedly reminding him of the way his mother used to twist her hair in a similar way, before she put it up in a clip. 

“One of my clients is a software developer, which is a bit odd, because his syntax is terrible,” June explained, coming over. She sat down on the black stool in front of him, resting her head in her hand, leaning against the counter on her elbow. “He’s also basically a computer genius. He found your pictures among scraps of facebook profiles of the people who are in them with you. They must’ve posted them before.” 

“And the other one?” he murmured, looking down at his hands. 

“That one was on Josh’s profile. I cannot tell you when or why he posted it.” 

“My mom’s hair was just like Holly’s,” he whispered, when a moment of silence stretched between them, still feeling the silky texture of his daughter’s hair between his fingers from when he brushed it before. 

“What was her name, I never asked.” 

“Helen.” 

“You told me she died when you were a teenager... what happened?” 

“Complications after pneumonia. Her heart gave out.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Mmm.” 

“What did she do?” 

“She was a stay at home mom,” he replied, moving away from the window and leaning more towards her. “She went to college after Josh and I started school, got a degree in English. She was about to start as a teacher when she got sick. She was barely thirty-six,” he added, closing his eyes at her memory. 

“What about your father?” she inquired quietly. 

“Why?” he replied, not looking at her. 

“I uhm… I never knew, and I don’t want _not_ to know anymore. But if it’s something you don’t want to talk about, that’s okay. I know I don’t have much to say about _my_ father…” 

“Anthony,” he answered a moment later. “He was an engine mechanic in a car plant, worked in shifts. Josh and I barely saw him on the weekends. After mother died, his world fell apart. He got cut during recession, found his calling in the bottom of a whisky bottle,” he scoffed lightly. “It wasn’t even a week after Josh’s funeral when he smeared his car on a tree.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Ancient history.” 

“It’s not so ancient.” 

He bit the inside of his cheek and sighted. He didn’t want to think about him. 

“She’s so much like you, Nick,” she told him after a beat. 

“Hmm?” he murmured, not following. 

“Holly. Every day, I see you in her. The way she moves, the way she talks, the way you can always see her take a moment before she says something, and when she does, it’s so… raw and accurate. She’s so taciturn, but she chews on everything for a long time. Sometimes, after something’s happened during the day, something I don’t see as very significant, she comes to me later and reflects on it, tells me her thoughts about it…” she trailed off, her eyes soft and glittering when he looked up at her again. 

“She loves Josh, she loved him the moment she felt him move,” she continued. “She was so gentle with him at the beginning. I remember during the first weeks after his birth, she wanted to hold him at least once a day. She always prepared herself, sat down, made sure to hold him tightly, even though she was so tiny herself. Now she… I don’t know if I’m not projecting anything into it, but she just understands that he’s a person, that he might think differently than she does. She’s not the smarty-pants kind of older sister. She hears him, she wants to know the way he understands things. And it’s the same with Hannah. And when Hannah’s here, Holly’s basically her shadow. Hannah got irritated once because of it, but Holly told her it was only logical she wanted to spend all her time with her, because she saw her so rarely. Hannah let’s her in more now.“ 

“More,” he whispered, his hunger merely awake, and he felt his chest tighten in the best possible way. 

“Okay,” she chuckled. “She loves berries. In the summer, she has to have them every morning for breakfast. Raspberries and wild strawberries are her favorite. You’ll see tomorrow. She’s not very interested in the girly stuff. Last year, she forgot skirts existed, and she’ll wear a dress only on special occasions, and she needs to pick it out herself. She’s more interested in nature and animals than dolls, and she prefers to draw or paint than to play with them. She loves moose, you have no idea.” 

“What?” he snorted. 

“Yeah, there’s a wild park on the other side of town, and we go there a couple of times a year to see them. She believes she can talk to them, you have to see it for yourself. We could go on Saturday, if you feel like it. Holly would love to check on the calves.” 

“Yeah, definitely.” 

“She’s smart, in my totally unbiased opinion,” she laughed. “She knows the alphabet and can recognize and read some words. She can count to twenty. Josh and she love puzzles, and she told me she’s bored with the kids’ stuff and wants a grown-up puzzle, which I wanted to get her soon.” She shifted towards him, her thumb drawing little circles on the inside of her knee. 

“And she listens, you know. She just won’t ignore you, even if she has something else on her mind. Josh will do that, be she’s… aware of the other person, always. But she can be stubborn and she has her moods, and they fight, of course. When she’s upset, she rarely comes running to me, but rather goes to Hannah’s room for a while, and then comes out and tries to make peace. He let her do that for a while, go away, calm down, and come back to him, but now I see him going to her first. It changed this spring, I think. Holly’s not a sickly child, but she gets these throat infections at least once during the colder months. Last time was particularly hard on her, and he kind of finally grasped that she was in pain. He was really worried about her, and he missed her.” 

“Josh,” he sighted. “I still… I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You gave our son my brother’s name,” he explained, his brows knitting with gratitude. She named him after the last person he loved before her. She kept him, brought him into the world, and raised him on her own, without any certainty if he would ever meet his father, if he was even alive. 

He will thank her for that, when his brain isn’t such a mush, when he’s able to convey it more coherently than right now. 

“I uhm… I couldn’t give him your last name, so… I thought about your father first, but I realized you never talked about him. And I knew how much Josh meant to you. I wanted him to be bound to you in some way. I needed him to,” she admitted, gazing up at him earnestly, but then her expression lightened up. “When the doctor first told me I was pregnant, I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened… But then… the epiphany,” she smiled and shook her head, closing her eyes. “Do you remember that night?” 

“I do,” he chuckled, blushing at the memory. 

He was on a three-day leave, and spent one day traveling to and from Boston, the only place which still held any meaning in his world. He stayed at a bed and breakfast, not knowing anyone well enough in the area anymore. Anyone but her. 

He phoned Lawrence, asking for a meeting with Commander Stone, the geriatric, surly chap, who took June in after her recovery, after all the heat with the plane died down. Somehow, Lawrence knew what Nick was really asking for. Nick somehow knew, suspecting some kind of mutual understanding between the two Commanders, that the old man Stone was not interested in putting a finger on June. Stone brought her with him to Lawrence’s, to help with the food, and she took his hand without a word when the two Commanders were sufficiently tipsy, and led him to her old room upstairs. 

He remembered everything as clearly as if it happened yesterday. She told him twice that she missed him, three times that she loved him. He remembered her sinking onto him with her dress still on. Taking off her bonnet while she was swaying on his lap, her hair tumbling down and tickling his face. He remembered opening the zipper on her back, the sound it made in between her gasps, and pulling the dress down. Wrapping his lips around her nipples, the exact taste of her skin. Her tongue in his mouth, hot and desperate, and tasting of red wine. He remembered every word she said, every sound that left her lips. He remembered precisely how the skin of her back felt under his fingertips, the silky surface of the scar hidden away between her ribs. 

He remembered everything, because this was what sustained him the last four years. Every single touch of her hand, every fervent look she gave him, every tremor of her muscles around his dick, so embarrassingly needy and desperate for her. Coming with her twice, first time crushing like stormy waves on a rocky cliff, both of them feverish like that, still half dressed, her above him. Then again later, completely bare, her soft and supple underneath him, her legs around his sides, him gulping every hot moan she made directly into his mouth. 

“But you said...” he added cautiously after a beat. 

“I know... And I meant it. It was a week after the calculated Ceremony, so I thought... I was sure, that...” 

“June... I’m not doubting you,” he assured, a wide smile stretching his face. “It’s just so... unreal.” 

“I know... It’s like he just decided to come into this world, you know, against all odds. Stubborn like that from the very beginning.” 

“Is he really that stubborn?” 

“Oh yeah. I mean he’s sweet and honest, but he’s so headstrong... once his mind’s set on something, it’s almost impossible to talk him out of it.” 

“Kind of like his mom. Kind of like his namesake. Double trouble.” 

“That’s Josh,” she chuckled softly. “It took us three days to get out, Hannah and me. There were moments when I was terrified, and hungry, and cold... and yet, he still... he grabbed on, so to speak.” 

“How exactly did you get out?” 

“Lawrence...” she bobbed her head. 

“He sent me a message after. It said, ‘The eagle and its curly haired chick have landed in maple land,’” he smirked. 

“No way,” she laughed under her breath. “On the other hand, it sounds just like him. He uhm...” her face changed, her brows drew together. “Just one night, a week or so after we uhm, after that night, he just showed up on my doorstep. He escorted me to a black van, and we drove for an hour or so. I was agitated, telling him we needed to do this again, try getting kids out, or cut the beast in some other way. And he just sat there, silent, just nodding, so I assumed this was like a first part of the plan or something,” she shook her head, scoffing quietly. 

“Then, we were in the middle of a forest, in the middle of the night. There was another van there, and he opened the door, and there was Hannah, and I... I suddenly forgot everything I was rambling about... and he said,” she chuckled. “He said, ‘Go in grace. I won’t miss you.’ And he kissed me on the forehead and added, ‘Maybe I will.’ And I just asked ‘How?’ And he looked over at Hannah, and whispered in my ear, ‘Thank your boyfriend,’” she concluded, looking at him intently, expectantly. “What did you do, Nick?” she asked finally. 

“Nothing,” he shook his head. He couldn’t take any credit for them getting out. “I did nothing. It was all him.” 

“Nick,” she insisted. “Please, tell me.” 

“I uhm...” he stammered. “Mackenzie was in Chicago. He was a high field Commander, I had nothing to do with him directly. But then there was this meeting after some progress on the front. It was meaningless bullshit, this progress, but they were celebrating anyway. So I took the chance to talk to him. And he mentioned in passing that his daughter missed her old schoolmates back East, so they were going to visit there during his leave. I gave Lawrence the dates. The rest was him. He never even told me the details.” 

“Mackenzie didn’t just mention this in passing, though, did he?” she whispered, holding his gaze. 

“No,” he admitted, letting his head hang. He worked him for months, chatted him up at meetings, praised his strategies, and won over his trust, enough of it anyway to venture into the personal. 

That night at Lawrence’s, after he left her in that bedroom, he found the Commander sitting at the kitchen table, Stone conked out on the couch in the sitting room, and he begged for his help. 

He looked up at her hesitantly, and her eyes were filled with tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Nick,” she choked out, looking down at her hands fidgeting on her lap. 

“What? Why?” 

“For leaving you behind.” 

“June,” he shook his head, and for the first time, reached over to touch her, sliding his hand between hers. She grasped it, locking it in. He grabbed the leg of her stool and pulled her closer with it, in between his legs, because she stubbornly refused to look up. He rested his forehead on the top of her head. “June, you did everything right.” 

She moved her head to the crook of his neck, and nestled it there quietly. 

“Thank you, Nick,” her words lingered in hot whisper on his neck. 

“Please, don’t thank me.” 

“I never had the chance to thank _him_. I was so overwhelmed when I saw Hannah... I forgot.” 

“He didn’t expect your gratitude. It was his way of begging you for forgiveness. He told me, it was the tip of the iceberg of what was owed.” 

“What happened to him, do you know?” 

“He vanished a couple of months ago. We managed to connect the Boston network with Mayday in Chicago. We did some damage. But someone was on his tail. I think he went fully underground.” 

“What damage?” she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him finally. “The transports?” 

“Some of them, yeah.” 

“How many?” 

“Six in three years. Four from Chicago, two from Boston.” 

The exact number of people they managed to get out was 521. 72 Handmaids, numerous Wives and Marthas. A couple of Guardians, soldiers, Econs. 115 kids. Twelve members lost their lives helping them. He was sure she will demand the numbers, the details, later on, and he will tell her everything, but not tonight. Not when she looked at him like that. 

“How did you get out?” 

“The U of C campus takeover last Wednesday, the Sacred Army Field HQ. My contact was on site, a US Army Captain. She found me after the bombings, smuggled me back to the American part of Chicago, then to Toronto.” 

She also put his tags and the named items of his uniform on a body of a dead soldier, before they blew up the building. To Gilead, he was dead, another contact confirmed it. In Toronto, he sat in hearings for five days straight. He gave them everything he knew, and in return, he received freedom. The passport in his duffel bag said Canada on the front, his first name was now his middle one. If he were to find her, he couldn’t imagine not hearing her say it the way she did, the way only she could, so he insisted on keeping it. But these details, too, could wait. 

“You brought down Chicago?” she asked with wide eyes. 

“No,” he scoffed. “The Americans did.” 

“But you gave them the necessary intel.” 

“Some of it.” 

“Are you safe now?” she asked after a beat. 

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.” 

She laughed quietly in response, but then her face sobered. “I need you to know something,” she faltered. 

“Okay,” he replied and swallowed hard, quenching the rising fear. 

“I wanna be honest. I don’t want us to be awkward, trying to guess how the other feels, what the other hopes for. I want to know and I want you to know. Is that okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

“After Josh was born,” she looked down, her voice quieter than before. “There was a moment, a time when... when Luke and I... It was brief, we both realized that it wouldn’t work, that we grew too much apart. That my heart wasn’t in it, because uhm... I realized that even though I loved him, that I couldn’t be with him that way, that I didn’t want to. He’s still a big part of my life but... Nothing’s changed for me since that night at Lawrence’s, Nick,” she continued more confidently. “What I said back then is how I still feel. And it’s not going away. I don’t want it to go away,” she looked up at him again, her face dewy with a sheen of sweat and tears. “What about you?” 

His eyes searched hers, before his gaze skidded down her face. He took in her nose, her cheeks, her lips. He looked down at his hand clasped between hers, her knees resting against the insides of his thighs, their bare feet so close together, and he felt happier in that moment than in the last four years combined. 

“It’s always been you, June,” he breathed, cupping her face. “It will always be you.” 

She moved closer and hugged him, pulling him to her, and he burrowed his face in the crook of her neck. They stayed like that for a moment, remembering how easily their bodies fit together.


	5. five

“Let me show you something,” she murmured after a while, leaving his embrace, and walked over to the couch. “Come here, and bring the wine,” she called over to him. He took the glasses and sat down next her. She had a tablet in her hand and fumbled with it for a moment, before she handed it to him. 

“At the end of every month, I picked out a couple of pictures from the hundreds we all took, and put them in albums. So that you can see what their life has been. What _our_ life has been.” 

He stared at her, bewildered and overwhelmed all at once. She smirked at him and took a sip of wine, and he knew it was her attempt to cover up how much his reaction moved her. He brought the tablet closer to him, and opened the first file. There was Holly, in a romper, on her fours, laughing uncontrollably. Then in June’s arms, her hair darker and wavy. In a stroller, bundled up in thick winter clothes. On the floor, playing with Moira. On the couch, squeezed between Luke and the back, both of them out cold. 

He scrolled through the albums, not saying a word, taking everything in. Holly’s first steps. June’s belly getting rounder. A trip to the zoo, to the beach. Holly pushing sand into her mouth. He laughed wholeheartedly at that. In late summer, he stopped on a picture of June for much longer than on any other before. ‘Moira’s birthday’ the description said. They were outside, it must have been warm. June stood half turned to the camera, Moira with her back to her in a similar position, leaning with her shoulder against June’s. June had a simple white t-shirt on, slim blue jeans rolled up at the bottom, her feet bare in the grass. Her hair came to her shoulders, cut off in a straight line, wavy and silver blond, her lips radiant red. She was laughing, holding her hand under her very round belly, Moira mirroring her gesture, her stomach flat as a plank. 

He closed his eyes against the pain that twisted his gut. That he missed all that. The way their son grew inside her, how he would’ve felt moving under his palm. The way their daughter went from crawling to running like crazy in a span of few weeks, how her laughter would’ve sounded. The way June looked in that picture, so devastatingly beautiful. Every moment he could’ve spent with them, but didn’t. 

He felt her move closer to him, rest her head on his shoulder. 

“You okay?” she asked after a moment. 

He clenched his jaw and nodded, willing himself to open his eyes. He was ashamed of himself, that a couple of hours ago, his biggest concern was if she waited for him. 

“I left you alone, with everything.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“But raising the kids on your own, and the house and... It’s so much work...” 

“No, don’t say that,” she shook her head before she continued. “Everything is how it is, because I wanted it that way. The house, the kids, my work, being on my own. It was all my choice, my decision. I wouldn’t have done it if I weren’t sure that I could. Remember, I told you to run if you had the chance, to get out and be her father, with or without me. If the situation were reversed, if I stayed in Gilead, I would’ve been elated knowing that she has you. And I would’ve believed that every choice you made regarding her and your life was right.” 

“That’s exactly how I feel about you, June, and I never doubted you can do anything you set your mind on. But you could’ve had it easier. I hate that you always have to do the hard thing, even when I’m... left speechless seeing you do it.” 

“Well, ditto.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head, not knowing what could leave her speechless regarding his behavior, or the choices he made, not able to let go of the regret that lingered in his stomach. “I’m just so sorry to have missed everything. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you, for them,” he looked at the picture again. “I didn’t even get to Josh’s birth yet, and it feels like too much. I want to know everything, I have a million questions, but...” he faltered, overwhelmed. 

“Small steps then,” she took the tablet from him, closed it, and put it away on the coffee table. “Nick...” she continued. “You’ll make memories. You’ll see them go to school, discover their passion, maybe fall in love. You’ll see them try to play an instrument, or some kind of sport. You’ll see them try to understand the world, and Gilead. The past is done, you can’t do anything about it. It’s a waste of time to worry about it, to regret not being here. You’ll be part of their future, that’s what counts.” 

“Thank you for putting this together... And thank you for keeping me in their lives,” he whispered. 

She didn’t answer, but took his hand in hers, and brought it to her lips, giving it a soft kiss. He twisted his neck, looking down at where she touched him, her face so close his eyes had difficulty holding focus. Her bottom lip was a bit chapped, tinted purple with the wine, her eyes just as he remembered, all the black specks in all the same places. He recognized the tension in them, the same one he saw when she first came to him, to his dank apartment, an eternity ago. 

Her lips felt exactly the same when he kissed her, and she tasted just like in his memory. Even her gasps sounded strikingly familiar, giving him the courage to get bolder. 

Four years and some change without any tenderness, the ‘change’ being four months and two days, but he preferred the superficiality of the saying; its undefined edges hurt less. 

Four and something years without _her_ , without her touch, without her smell, and he was drowning in her already. 

He turned his body to her, driving his hand in her hair, his thumb dancing on her cheek, and they found their rhythm in no time, when lips sucked lips, when tongue found tongue, when teeth grazed swollen, wet flesh. He was instantly dizzy, high on her when she grabbed his neck, pulling him closer. 

Suddenly, she broke away, panting, and he heard it too, a door closing somewhere in the house. 

“It’s probably Holly, she gets up to go to the bathroom sometimes,” she whispered, looking at him, but focusing on the noises. He heard the toilet flush and she moved away from him, reaching for her wine, swiping her hair away from her face and holding it down at the back of her neck. He returned to his neutral position and coughed into his fist, making her chuckle. The bathroom door opened and he listened to the sound of bare feet dragging on the hardwood floor get louder, until Holly stood by the couch. 

“Mom?” she said, completely drowsy, her eyes barely open. 

“Yeah, baby?” 

“Will you tuck me in again?” 

“Sure I will,” June answered quietly, standing up, and gave him a fleeting, silly look, like they were teenagers, making out like that for the first time, and got caught by her mother. 

He smiled to himself, leaned forward on his elbows, and buried his face in his hands, rubbing his palms over his cheeks. He raked his hand through his hair time and again, and took a sip of the wine, then a bigger one. He leaned back, waiting. After a moment, he heard her close the door and walk down the hall. She stopped where Holly has just been, leaning on her forearm against the doorframe, her knuckles rubbing lightly over her mouth. 

“Should we uhm... You tired?” 

“Yeah, no problem, you should go to bed. I’m keeping you up.” 

“That’s not what I asked,” she smirked, raising her brow. 

“Oh, yeah, I can sleep here,” he babbled again, feeling his insides start to tremble. 

“You don’t want to sleep on the couch,” she told him, a bit amused. She was right, but he suddenly didn’t know how to say it. “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” she added after a moment. He let his head drop, his cheeks burning with what felt like a juvenile blush. “So stop playing the gentleman,” she whispered finally, her voice sending a chill down his spine. 

He cleared his throat, and she turned off the light when he stood up, the fire burning with a slow, steady flicker behind them. 


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of war.  
> Explicit language.

In the bedroom, she flipped the bedside lamp on and opened the top drawer of the dresser, digging through its contents. She pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. “You can use that as pajamas,” she smiled, handing him the clothes, and he accepted, even though he had a similar set in his duffel bag. “Do you want to take a shower?” 

“No, I’m good.” 

“I should have an extra toothbrush somewhere, let me look,” she walked into the bathroom and stuck her head in the cabinet under the sink. “Do you need anything else?” 

“No,” he answered, amused, leaning against the doorframe. Somewhere between the living room and the bedroom, she got nervous herself, and the knowledge calmed him down a bit. 

“There you go,” she fished out a wooden toothbrush still in its package, and pushed it onto the counter. She squeezed some toothpaste onto her own toothbrush before she gave him the tube, and turned around to the cabinet behind her, one hand brushing, the other choosing a towel. She pulled one out and gave it to him. 

They stood by the sink, and she caught his gaze in the mirror, holding it, brushing quietly. In a way, this felt like a strikingly intimate moment, this ordinary task they were carrying out together. They saw each other in a myriad of intimate moments, but they never did _that_ , not even at The Globe. 

She rinsed out her mouth and left the room, saying she’ll give him some privacy. He changed his clothes and found her by the dresser, wearing black pajama pants cut like long johns, and a simple, oversized top, rubbing hand cream into her palms. She stopped when she saw him, and pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh. 

“What?” he raised his eyebrows, knowing exactly what amused her so much. The sweatpants fit fine, but the t-shirt was a bit tight, riding up and pulling around his chest, especially at the pectorals, where her eyes lingered, her smirk evaporating. 

“I think I have a bigger one here,” she mumbled, tearing her eyes off him, but he blocked the drawer with his hand. 

“I’m fine with this one.” 

He moved closer and behind her, resting his fingers lightly on her hips, and pushed gently, making her turn around. Her breath tickled his chin, his face hovering so close to hers, merely an inch away, and the pads of his thumbs caressed the skin right above the waistband of her pajama pants, right over the bones of her hips. The quiver inside him receded when she locked eyes with his, and a hum took over his body, as if it were under high voltage. 

He fisted the loose fabric of her top and took a step back, pulling her gently with him, and she followed, until the edge of the mattress pushed against his calves. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, swaying faintly, and her body moved in tandem with his, still so electrifyingly close, their eyes dancing in a conversation of their own. 

He waited patiently, wanting her to decide what happens next. His breath came out shakily when she rested her palm on his sternum, and pushed softly. He sat down on the bed, pulling her with him when he slid further towards its center. She crawled above him, her hands bracketing his neck, her knees spread wide, anchored on either side of his hips. This, too, felt remarkably intimate. 

She gathered her hair from one side of her face and threw it all to the other, and it came down caressing the back of his arm, sending a thrill down his body, reaching as far down as his bare toes. He bent his knees and brought his legs up, stretching his feet against the cool surface of the bedspread in an odd kind of release. 

His hands came to her sides, touching there lightly, his fingertips counting the bumps of her ribs, until they found the hem of her shirt. He slid his hands back up, gathering the fabric on the way, his touch bolder now, until the pads of his thumbs reached the spot where her breast began. She gasped, closing her eyes, and he took it as further encouragement. He rubbed his thumbs back and forth along the damp creases, then up towards her armpits, and slid them back down, directly over the swell of her breasts to their center, circling the aroused nipples. He heard a moan catch in her throat before her lips came down onto his, her tongue cold and minty against his. 

Through the haze caused by her kisses, he felt her settle onto his hips, and he ground up against her instinctively, hopelessly. She answered with a hard roll of her pelvis, making him sing into her mouth, and she broke away, watching him, her eyes roaming over his face, his chest. Her hand followed her gaze, sliding over his shoulder and down to the defined swell of his chest, kneading the flesh the way he so often did with her breasts, sending a hot jolt straight to his balls. 

“You look ridiculous in this thing,” she murmured. 

“Am I too sexy for my shirt?” he smirked, and she snorted, grabbing the hem of the t-shirt. 

“I think you might just be,” she chuckled and leaned back more, settling low on his stomach. She helped him take the shirt off and flung it casually onto the ground, looking down at him with fresh desire. 

He got bulkier over the last two years or so. Someone told him, it had to do with the hormones and his body hitting mid-thirties, but he believed it had more to do with the fact that she was out, and he worried less about her, or else, that he worried differently. 

The relocation of his platoon under the command of a different Captain, who took muscle diet and weight training very seriously, had also something to do with how his body looked. In Toronto, they asked for his size, and out of habit, he gave them the old one, and he wasn’t even able to pull the jeans past his thighs. 

But it wasn’t the girth of his midriff that made her slow her caressed over the muscles of his stomach. It wasn’t the new width of his chest, nor the muscles defining his arms that drained the lust from her eyes. 

The pink, round scar right above his clavicle was where her gaze focused on, the spot where the bullet went straight through, sending him to the hospital for the first time. He had a similar scar on his thigh, and that one put him on crutches for a couple of weeks, but he decided to let her discover it later. 

It was also the long, still reddish mark biting into the muscles of his left arm, the spot where a piece of scaffolding, dislocated by a blast, flew across the room he was hiding in, and stopped only when it hit the bone. It had to be surgically removed, but the doctor did a great job with the debridement, and the injury put him in the hospital for only a week. But she didn’t need to know that right away. 

It was also the visibly rough surface of his right shoulder and the top of his arm, reaching as far as the shoulder blade, which was now hidden from her view. It was the spot where he hit the ground after a different blast threw him a few feet away and down a gravel path, which he slid across for another couple of feet, dislocating his shoulder and grating his clothes and skin away. He spent ten days in the hospital after that, recovering from a concussion as well. 

The doctor who looked after him concluded, that the host of pebbles, which went under his skin, was a minor inconvenience he could live with, and decided against pulling them out. But Rahim, the forever jolly, middle aged RN Nick knew from his earlier visits on that particular ward, came to him after hours with an assortment of tweezers and pincers, gave him a piece of cloth to bite on, flopped him onto his stomach like a pancake, sat across his ass, and spend over an hour taking every single kernel out. 

Maybe he’ll try to tell her that like a funny story some other time, but not now. Not when her fingers touched reverently over the still coarse skin, her eyes sorrowful, but without pity. 

He showed her his last scar himself, the one spanning the inside of his right forearm. It happened when they were setting up equipment in an abandoned building, wearing full gear and sweating profusely underneath it, and they got under attack. A stray bullet hit a gas pipe right next to him. It spat fire like a flame thrower, burning him when he tried to shield his eyes and face, and it licked right at the spot where he rolled up his sleeve before to help with the perspiration. The burn went deep into the tissue, and there were spots underneath the pale, rubbery skin, where he didn’t feel anything, even now, when she drew circles over it with her thumb. 

Rahim came to him on Nick’s last day on the ward, after three weeks of treatments with fish skins, sat down on the edge of his bed, and asked if he had a lady waiting for him back home. When Nick didn’t respond, he moved closer to him and said, ‘Then stop trying to get yourself killed, kid.’ His words left him changed. 

He was able to get Rahim out with the last transport he organized. Maybe he’ll tell her that story first, it had a feel-good punch line to it. 

In all honesty, he didn’t want to tell her any of this. Because she, too, bore scars. Because she, too, has suffered. But he knew she’d want to know about his pain as much as he always wanted to know about hers, to take some of it away by knowing, by sharing. So, eventually, he will tell her everything. 

He moved his hand to her side again, underneath the fabric of her shirt, his thumb easily finding the scar between her ribs, and he circled it gently. He believed she understood his gesture, and she understood the look in his eyes. There will be time for that. She leaned over him again, her hands bracketing his neck. 

He pulled her shirt all the way up and off her, and cupped her breasts in his palms, rubbing and kneading the round flesh. He slid a bit more underneath her, so that his lips could wrap around her nipples, and he sucked and caressed, until her breathing became heavy again, until a blush covered her neck and chest. Only then did he slid one hand down her back and tentatively over her ass, and she started rocking against him, gently at first, then grinding more fiercely, swaying her hips with marvelous pace and pressure. 

His breath became ragged, heat blossomed in every nook and cranny of his body. Bringing one arm around her, he pushed himself up and flipped her on her back, planting himself by her side. He stroked her stomach, bringing his hand lower with every sweep of his palm, until his fingers reached the waistband of her pajama bottoms. She bent her knees, bringing her legs up, and let one fall slowly to the side. He pushed underneath her panties, past the short curls, and further down to her silky folds, making them both whimper in unison. He let his middle finger glide over her up and down, gathering her wetness, but he didn’t push inside. Instead, he moved it over her clit and started swirling around it, quickening her breath. 

After her eyes fell close, he latched onto the soft skin of her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, leaving hot kisses on her sternum. He removed his hand, shifting above her, kissing down her stomach. Her body changed as well, he noticed. Her flanks were more slender, a shadow of muscles moved underneath the skin of her abdomen. Sporty-Spice mom indeed. But there was still that soft pouch right below her navel, and he pushed his nose and mouth there, kissing and licking the spot he adored so much. 

She lifted her hips off the mattress when he hooked his fingers under the waistband of the pajama bottoms. Coming to his his knees, he pulled the pants off, taking her underwear with them, and she brought her knees together in front of him. Noticing this, he palmed them gently, rubbing his thumbs over the softer skin inside, and she opened up gradually. He moved to kiss the inside of one knee first, then the other, and continued down the delicate skin of her inner thighs, where her muscles vibrated with a subtle tremor, similar to the one he felt inside him. 

When he reached the swell of her pubic bone, her scent hit his nostrils and filled his lungs, making everything seem hazy again, but his eyes caught the curved line that sat right above the black curls. He skidded over it with his middle finger, closing his eyes in reverence. 

“Nick,” she whispered, and there was a hint of urgency in her voice. There will be time for that, too. 

He moved further down, burying his nose in her curls, licking the soft, bare skin below them. He felt her reach for his hair and tighten her grip when he latched onto her clit, when his tongue flicked and swirled around it. She started rolling her hips in tandem with his movements, gasping and moaning, until her thighs squeezed tightly against his ears. He slid one finger inside her, finding her so hot and wet, that he immediately added another, making her gasps rise and fall when he slid them in and out, curling them up the way she liked. 

Suddenly, he heard her whisper ‘stop’. Then again. Concerned, he stilled his hand and his mouth, and pushed himself up and over her, panic pinching his gut. 

“What’s wrong?” he looked down at her. She was panting, eyes squeezed shut, her face dewy and flushed. 

“What?” she asked in hot whisper, snapping her eyes open. 

“You said stop.” 

“No I didn’t,” she answered, her brows knitting in confusion. “I said _don’t_ stop.” 

“Shit, fuck,” he stammered, letting his head fall onto her shoulder, realizing his mistake, but he heard her laugh softly underneath him, her bones vibrating under his forehead. He turned to her again, feeling embarrassed, but she looked at him with delight, stroking his cheek and the back of his neck. 

“It’s okay, stay here.” She pulled his face to hers, her tongue finding his. He started swaying with her, finding their rhythm again, before he felt her hand reach down between them and cup his balls over the thick cloth of the sweatpants. He hummed in response and she grabbed his dick more confidently over the fabric, the heel of her hand right against the head, and he began rocking harder into her grip, reminded of her able hands. 

The feeling was too good, and he broke the kiss with a gasp, letting himself be pulled in by her eyes. He breathed thickly, shallowly, and she kept holding his gaze, until he reached the point where he needed to quickly decide whether to withdraw and restrain himself, or to literally come in his pants. Well, _her_ pants. 

“Do you have a condom?” he asked, slowing his hips down to a gentle sway. He felt her grip loosen, her eyes fluttering shut, and he knew the answer before she shook her head. 

“You?” she murmured, and he suspected she knew his answer as well. He kissed her neck instead of answering, and moved down her body, going back to his original plan. She grabbed him by his shoulder when he reached her navel. 

“Wait.” 

She slipped away from underneath him, and he turned to his side, pushing himself up on his elbow. He watched as she staggered to the closet and pushed the sliding door to the side. “I was on campus last month and they were giving out goodie bags...” she said, sitting down on her knees and fumbling around the floor of the closet, and in that instant, the edges of his only truth, the only thing he ever knew for sure, sharpened in his mind. That he could never love anybody the way he loved her. He looked at her now, with her hair wild and her chest flushed, trying to find a condom, so that she could be with him, hardly believing that she wanted to in the first place. 

He heard a rustle of a paper bag before she stood up and walked over to him, letting a little square, black envelope fall onto his chest. 

“Where were we?” she smirked, and he pulled her down on top of him. Their giggles faded quickly, and the mood shifted back to passion, and heat, and the need for coming together again. 

She pulled back, roaming her hands over his chest and down to the waistband of the sweatpants, which she tried to push down his hips. He lifted his ass, shoved the pants down and kicked them off. Her hot, soft hand wrapped around his shaft, making him shudder, and with the other, she pulled him up to her. He leaned back on one arm, bringing the other loosely around the taut muscles of her back. 

“I want to feel you first. All of you,” she whispered into his face, squeezing her hand tighter around him, twisting her fist upwards. “Is that okay?” 

He nodded, because there was barely any air left in his lugs, and she rocked her hips up, sliding the tip inside. Holding onto his shoulder and the back of his neck, she pushed down onto him, and he looked up, watching her face change. Her eyes fluttered shut, her mouth slacked and fell half open, and he fought against his own need to roll his eyes back with pleasure. 

She let her forehead fall onto his and started rolling her hips against his, ripe desire written into her movement, the sounds she made pitched and raspy, and he felt her ripple around him after just a few strokes, pulling him in even deeper. Her nails dug into his shoulder, making him agonizingly more aroused, but even then, he wasn’t able to take his eyes off of her. 

When the waves rolling through her body started to recede, she slid her head down to the crook of his neck, her body soft again, his skin covered with goosebumps where her hot breath touched it. 

“It’s not what I had in mind,” she admitted with a soft laugh. “I really didn’t expect that.” 

“I sure didn’t mind it,” he replied, moving his lips up her neck, over her jaw and to her mouth, letting her tongue in, his dick still throbbing with desire inside her. He locked her ass and back tightly against him, shifting with her, until she lay underneath him. He slid out in the process and he tried to ignore the loss of her heat, tried to restrain himself from driving into her again, because he doubted he’d be able to hold back. 

She smiled up at him when he settled closer to her, leaning on his forearm, letting her legs cradle him. She touched his face, swiping away the dampness that gathered in his brows. “God did I miss those,” she said under her breath. “And those,” she added, running her thumb over his lips. “And you,” she gazed up at him. He wanted to tell her how much he missed every part of her being, but his mind, in its current state, failed to gather his thoughts and express them in the elaborate way he wanted to convey them, so he remained silent, hoping his eyes, hazy and wild, would speak for him. 

She looked around the bed, locating the black envelope, reached for it, fished out the packet, and ripped it open, pulling the condom out. Her hands were warm but trembling when she rolled it down where it belonged, and guided him in. He pushed slowly inside her, a little deeper with every stroke, until his pelvis squared with hers, bringing his world to a stop. 

It took a moment for her heat to seep through the latex, and before he sped up his hips with abandon, before his control slipped away, he managed to choke out the three words he wanted to say to her since he found her on that blanket earlier that day, since she looked up at him with wide eyes. The three words, which barely described the enormity of what he felt for her, which lined every decision he made since that day they joked about tuna. The three words, which she whispered back to him, before her head pushed back against the mattress, her body arched and taut underneath him. His last coherent thought before he shattered inside her, becoming whole again.


End file.
